


Discourse On Immortality And The Proof Of A Laughing God

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-05
Updated: 2001-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 09:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/354797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex muses about how he's cheated death and what exactly Clark means to him.  Lex's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discourse On Immortality And The Proof Of A Laughing God

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Charles for the hand-holding and beta. This is what 

## Discourse On Immortality And The Proof Of A Laughing God

by Random

[]()

* * *

TITLE: Discourse On Immortality And The Proof Of A Laughing God AUTHOR: Random (kemarx@swbell.net)  
FANDOM/PAIRING: Smallville (Lex/Clark)  
SPOILERS: Up to and including Hourglass. **RATING: PG**  
DISCLAIMER: AOL/Time-Warner owns all. No profit made. SUMMARY: Lex muses about how he's cheated death and what exactly Clark means to him. Lex's POV. 

happens when I ask my muses stupid questions and I come off a block. 

* * *

I've never been religious. My father was always under the firm belief that religion was for the weak minded, the easily impressionable. My mother tried to teach me the value of morality, of the importance of doing what was right. 

I can't rightly call myself an atheist, or even an agnostic. I've never wondered about the existence of God. He made His presence known to me when I was nine. Moses got a burning bush. I got a burning cornfield. 

He didn't speak to me so much as show me the way. The meek may inherit the earth, but only the strong will survive long enough to enjoy it. I had to be strong, I had to be bold. I remember the story of Job, and the trials God put him through to test his faith. I could have taken my baldness as a curse. It's not a curse. It's a blessing. That day it rained rocks, God took away my asthma as well as my vanity. 

Oh, I'm still vain, but not in the traditional sense. As a child, I always felt physically deficient. I got my ass kicked several times, just for being a clumsy, awkward, spoiled rich kid. Red hair and breathing problems do not foster friendships despite how much I could pay for playmates. When I lost my hair, I became so much more self-conscious, shying away from the stares and the whispers. Then I got over it. I wasn't going to change who I was to please anyone but me. 

Timothy Lawson. I hadn't thought of him in years. He was a bully, and I broke his nose when I was 12. He hated my guts. Not only was I bald freak and small for my age, but I was also an American. That, more than anything else, was the kiss of death. So, he decided to show me what he thought of inbred Yanks. 

I decked him. First time I'd ever raised my fist to anyone. Blood splattered everywhere with a wet plop, spraying my white shirt with flecks of red. Tim cried like a girl. I was thrown out of my boarding school and had to be tutored for the rest of the year. 

I really preferred that method of schooling. My father didn't particularly care to have me around, so he arranged our traveling schedules so we only spent maybe a total of four weeks a year together in the same country. 

I graduated from school when I was 16. Three years before I was supposed to. Dad decided that he wanted me close to home, and since waiting a semester before I went to college wasn't an option, I enrolled at Metropolis University. Not a bad school, but hardly Ivy League. It was good publicity, though. Luthor's Son Attends Public University. I think LuthorCorp stock doubled that year. 

Which was a good thing, considering how much I cost my father in pay offs, fines, court costs and bribes. I don't feel guilty about that in the least. As I said, I can't change who I am for anyone but me, least of all my father. 

I remember vividly the day Dad told me he was shipping me off to New Jersey. I'd been in a coma for three days. It was either Princeton or jail, he told me, and from his tone I knew it wasn't a choice. A Luthor in jail was as unlikely as green mutant pigs devouring a small town. 

Club Zero had been a mistake. It was dangerous and stupid, but I was 16 and thought I knew everything. When I fought, I preferred to use my bare hands. I was drunk that night, on stupid Peppermint Schnapps of all things, and I didn't notice the guy had a knife until I was face down in a puddle of my own blood. 

I don't remember getting to the hospital. I just remember waking up and looking at my father who went from worried to concerned to pissed in a heart beat. He just told me coolly that I would be getting out of ICU in a few days, and as soon as the doctors release me, I was to pack my bags and make sure I stayed out of trouble from then on. 

I still have scars from that fight. One right below my heart, one down the length of my right ribs, and a small one on my upper lip. Just more marks to tally my brushes with death. 

My next fateful encounter was years later, when I drove my car off a bridge. I was saved by a pretty farmboy who became my best friend. Clark stole my heart that day. He could have let me die, and I honestly don't know why he didn't. Maybe it was fate. 

I kept the car as a memento. Just like I kept that last lock of my hair and the knife that just missed my heart. It's sick, I know, but I want to remember that I can't die. I don't get sick, I don't have hangovers, I heal very quickly and I don't feel pain. Trust me, I've tried them all. 

When Cassandra died in front of me, it was the first time I'd ever felt death. The first time I ever saw a dead body, really. My mother sent me out of her room when she died, and she was cremated shortly thereafter. I'll admit, for the first time in a long while, I was actually afraid. 

I could actually fall in love with Clark. What if he died? I didn't want to think about that, but the nagging question kept digging at me. What if he died and never knew how much I cared for him? 

Being me, of course, I decided to give it some quiet contemplation over a bottle or two of very expensive alcohol. Wine was for dinner, brandy was for dessert, scotch was for getting drunk. I was well on my way to getting toasted when Nicolas announced I had a visitor. 

It was a quarter to midnight. I knew who was knocking at my door. I tried to hide my goofy grin when Clark walked in. He smiled and raised an eyebrow at me. Or, possibly at the dumb expression on my face. 

I didn't care. I was warm, I was happy, I had just enough of my faculties to keep from slurring my words but not enough sobriety to care what I actually said. And Clark had come to see me. For no reason. Life was good. 

"You know," I greeted, patting the soft leather sofa next to where I sat. Okay, so I was sprawled, but there was still enough room for Clark to sit comfortably without having to touch me. "If you were anyone else, I wouldn't have let you in tonight." 

"Oh?" he asked, sliding back into the leather. Oh, what I wouldn't give to have been a sofa at that moment. 

"Yes," I said, holding up my tumbler. "I'm in the process of getting drunk. Wanna join me?" 

He chuckled softly and ducked his head. "I don't like alcohol very much. But please," he smiled, fixing me in his reverent stare. "Go ahead and get wasted." 

My goofy grin was back, and he laughed at me. It was nice. One of the nicest moments I can remember. I drained the rest of my glass and set it on the floor. I just stared at Clark for a moment, watching him glance around my playroom. 

"So," I said after a moment. "What brings you here? I know you didn't come just for my inebriated company." 

"Actually," he said, resting his arm on the back of the sofa, his fingers just inches from mine. He did this head tilt thing, catching the light in his eyes, making them glow this wonderful greenish color. "My parents are out of town this weekend, and I was kind of bored. Figured you'd be up." 

"You just wanted to hang out with me?" I tried to make it sound cynical, but it came out as vaguely surprised. Even to my ears, it was needy. I winced internally at it and hoped Clark hadn't noticed. 

"You're my friend, Lex," he said softly. "Why wouldn't I?" 

I shrugged. He looked at me with those soulful eyes, his pouty lips turning down ever so slightly, and he leaned forward. I wanted to touch him, make sure he was real. Well, I wanted to touch him even if he wasn't real. 

Distraction. Needed a good distraction. Deflect attention, and sneak the elephant out the window. 

I stood up slowly, trying to keep my balance. I definitely had enough to drink. Clark watched me with concerned eyes, offering me a hand up. I would have been insulted if I didn't think it was so sweet. 

I did touch him. I pressed my fingertips lightly to his cheek, feeling the smoothness of his skin, the warmth he radiated. His eyes fluttered closed, long lashes dancing wickedly against his pale skin. So lovely, so fresh, like an alfresco painting. 

"You're my proof." I smiled, cupping my palm to his face, soaking up the trust and goodness that leaked from his pores. 

He opened his eyes lazily, his mouth twisting into a confused frown. "Proof of what?" he asked slowly. 

"Ever read Descartes?" I asked slyly, reaching up to finger one of his curls. 

"Sure. 'I think, therefore I am,'" he quoted, his eyes meeting mine. 

"He spent years trying to prove the existence of God," I explained, trailing a finger around Clark's ear. "His ultimate proof went something like this. He worried that the world, and everything in it, was just a fabrication of Satan. Even if the world was just an elaborate illusion, a creation of Evil, Satan couldn't exist without God. But you, Clark," I said, brushing the tip of my finger across his parted lips. "You're my proof that God is playing a practical joke on me." 

"I'm not--" He stopped, opened his mouth to start again, and closed it firmly. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean." 

I gave him a cocky smile. "When you look at me, what do you see?" 

He blinked, and looked at me, assessing me from head to toe. "I see my friend, Lex Luthor, business man extrodinaire with expensive taste and a bad driving record. I see that you want the world to think you're sophisticated and worldly, but inside you think you're a leper and just want people to like you. You have to have control over everything around you, and a loss of control would be worse than death. I see you try to hide inside yourself, like one of those Russian dolls, and every time I look at you, I think I see a new layer being peeled away." 

"You see all that?" I looked down. 

"I'm nave, Lex, not stupid," he said mater-of-factly. 

"I know that," I said hotly, rubbing my hand over my face. "But when I look at you, I see everything I want. Everything I can't have. And it makes me feel like a pervert." 

Clark blinked. "You...want me?" 

"Yeah," I nodded. 

"Why...why do you feel like a pervert?" he asked. "Is it the age thing? Or the we're both guys thing?" 

"Neither." I laughed, short and cruel. "You're perfect, Clark. And I'm not. You're an angel, bright and shining, and every time I see you, I keep looking for where you hid your wings." Among other things. "I was cast out of paradise a long time ago. I'm marked, tainted. Devils and angels can never be bedmates." 

Mental note: Do not drink around Clark. I become melodramatic and unseemly. 

Clark touched my face hesitantly, then more confidently when I didn't pull away. "You're not a devil, Lex." 

"You don't know me, Clark," I said tiredly. 

"Then show me." 

I studied his face for a full minute. It was so open and honest, searching for something I wasn't sure I had inside me to give. In that minute, I discovered a hole I didn't know I had, a hole I had to fill. It ached and itched like a healing wound. Maybe Clark could fill that hole. Maybe I'd been waiting for him all my life. Maybe... 

"Maybe." 


End file.
